Shark Bite
by Bullocks
Summary: Harvey Bullock is being terrorized by a street gang, all while having to solve why a new fear drug is on the streets, accompanied by his partner, Renee Montoya, for one last time. Bullock fears he may have to contact the one man he hates most for help. This is the second story in my Harvey Bullock series, but can certainly be read as a stand-alone. Enjoy! Drama/Crime/Mystery
1. Exposition

A/N: This story shall be a chapter story. It will be longer than my original story, and this will give me more room to work with. It's a bit of a slow burn, but it'll catch up pace.

I hope you will enjoy!

* * *

My father was a cop.

My father was an alcoholic.

My father was a football fan.

My father was a man of many talents and had many faces; but the one thing he surely wasn't, was a father. He wasn't cut out for it, you know; he was just an off duty cop, who by the way was intoxicated as the sky is blue, at a sleazy brothel lookin' to get lucky, and lucky he was. That's where he met my stripper, dare I say, whore of a mother, another individual not cut out to be a mom. So, you can guess what happened next. What ya can't guess (or maybe ya did, who knows) is my mother left my dad as soon as I was born.

I guess you can say I was unlucky, but I would be feeling bad for myself if I said that. However, my father did try to at least be a normal dad, and he brought me up, taught me about the streets, put me in little league football; I'll give him that. But those were sadly only the good days, which by the way, we had very little of; most of the days it was him coming home after the witching hour, drunk off his ass. I would be awake when he made his arrival, especially as I got older, because we all know what people try to do in high school. They skip it. And I did that most of the time, and I guess it was because of this that I also became a cop. I had nothing else to give to the city besides brute force...

But I digress, so in the end; my father was a drunk, narcissistic man, who was not cut out for parenthood. He would bring home prostitutes, which I also use this term lightly; we lived in a one-room apartment for Christ's sake. When my dad and the hookers would get it on, it would keep me up all night. As you would expect, him and I never had the closest relationship. We never had any of that "father-sons bonding" things goin' on. When I turned 17, I told my already smashed father to get a life, I told him I was movin' out, I told him he was a terrible father, and blah blah blah. I never spoke to him since. I rue the day that I do meet up with my good for nothin' father once again. On my 18th birthday, I knew I wanted to be a cop. Well, I guess you could say I didn't have a choice; but the ability to save lives and make Gotham a better place made me want to become a detective so badly. I mean, now I am a detective, but then I didn't have the chops to become a straightforward detective. I walked the streets, been around the block once or twice and I earned my way to becoming a detective; a lazy one at that.

I didn't realize how corrupted and filthy the GCPD was until I actually joined the force. My partner was Fernandez Malone, God rest his soul. He showed me Gotham like I never seen it before. He took me under his wing! I guess you can say he was more of a father to me than my actual dad. He was the only honest cop during my time on the force. But all good things must come to an end as a street gang of punks gunned him down while he was in a grocery store. He was 54.

It wasn't until the good ol' commissioner; well then he wasn't, transferred to the department. He sure set things straight. He brought down the corruption of the force and the city! He brought down corrupt cops such as Arnold Flass; no one misses that scumbag, and corrupt officials such as Commissioner Gillian Loeb! Man that guy was a handful...

So, there was this sting operation and they needed a couple of worthy cops to help the detectives, so Gordon, who was then a Lieutenant, chose me. This was the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship that goes on 'til this day. It was also all thanks to him that I was turned into a full-fledged detective, which I owe everything to him for that.

Wait a second...

I turned my overweight, sore body to its side to examine my alarm clock.

"It's nine o' clock?" I fiercely shout to the top of my lungs, which no doubt my fellow neighbors of this apartment complex heard.

"Oh no. Oh no. Oh no."

I do this literally every other day; I am surprised Commish puts up with me. Well at least I have an explanation for this time! Well, there is one explanation for every time I wake up so late...I stay out drinkin' 'til the crack of dawn. I still haven't fully addressed my drinking problem, it surely has gotten worse with time. Ever since I was thanked by literally every public official of Gotham, even the corrupt ones; for me taking down Thorne for those murders, I've been drinking more and more. As if I feel I should celebrate every night at 'O Hara's with about four bottles of brew and a handful of shots.

I think both Montoya and Commish, and the whole department, could smell the booze under my breath, mixed perfectly with the scent of tobacco. Montoya pretends to not notice, as if she would hurt herself to confront it too. Commish never speaks of it, too. It's like they pretend to not notice to keep my sorry ass around. I really need to clean myself up, both mentally and physically.

I look up at my stained, broken, and torn up roof from my bed. I feel for this roof, as we both have visible scars from things brought upon us ourselves. I could just be over thinking this...

I try to pry myself out of my tattered bed, this is when the hangover comes shooting into my head like a bullet. I try to maneuver myself through my sleazy apartment, which is falling apart around me. I look at my desk for a cigar, cigarillo, cigarette, anything; yet I cannot seem to find any of this; great way to start my day.

I throw on my shirt and tie, grab a stale piece of pizza from my fridge, and throw on my coat as I walk out the door. The only thing I can think of is picking up a pack of cigars, I need a fix of my filthy habit.

I walk out my apartment, and I proceed through the long hallway that is full of my fellow neighbors living in their own gloomy apartment. Some of them leave their doors wide open and some leave their blinds up, leaving their proceedings fully visible to all that pass by. I will never forget the one time the room across from me left their blinds up; I saw the couple that resides there having sex...well, that's a story for another day...

I rush to the parking garage that is set-aside for those who abode in this sleazy apartment complex, where I would find my car waiting for me, but apparently not today. Today I find my car, which has been my only prized possession, as it was a 1967 Dodge Coronet, all nicely painted in black, damaged and broken. Someone popped the tires, shattered the glass, busted the hood and body up with what looks to be a bat, and they apparently urinated on the poor thing as the horrid smell pierces my nostrils.

The interior of the car is also destroyed, with the seats ripped up and the steering wheel pulled out. I pick up what appears to be a note left on the driver's seat.

* * *

Dear Mr. Bullock,

This has been our 2nd warning. Next time it aint gonna be so pretty. We aint lookin for ransom, we just lookin for a little fun, watch yourself

-The Mercs

* * *

"SON OF A BITCH! You punks out there?" I scream in the vacant parking garage, as if I expected someone to answer. All right, calm down you hung-over drunk...

The spelling on the sheet proved that it has to be a group of uneducated, small time punks lookin' for some thrills and they decided to choose me. They also fancy themselves "the Mercs", so there is a possibility they were hired... there has to be more to it.

Now look, I don't spell the best either, I honestly have the worst, illegible handwriting on the force (thanks dad...) but I am used to gettin' death threats. Once I had gotten so many death threats they could've had their own address! And when that happened to me, I was almost snuffed a few times. I even had to call in the help of Bats to find out whodunit. We both thought it was this drug peddler Vinnie "the Shark" but it was the last person I expected, my short-tempered landlord Nivens! I mean, I always knew people hated me, I always had a reputation, and I knew he hated me too, but never did I expect this from him.

I should also mention, I've already gotten a "warning" from these worthless punks. It was more like a skinned cat, which by the way made my stomach churn, hanging from a noose on my door a note similar to this one, than an actual warning. This just proves these punks are out to get me.

Point is, I have experience with this type of behavior, especially since I am a cop. Honestly; this is the least of all my worry right now. I HAVE to get to the department as soon as possible. As I've said, I need to clean myself up, make a better impression with my fellow detectives and if my own morals have been making Gotham a better and cleaner place, I should really use my power to relate that to myself too. But you know, do as I say not as I do.

Since I live too far away to walk to the department to get there soon, I had to do the one thing I do too often, I have to call up Montoya to pick my pathetic self up.

I whip out my cellular from my coat pocket; you know those old, ancient flip phones? I have that; it suits me. I never got why people need those smart phone Apple things. It's overpriced, for twenty bucks you can get the same thing just without the Internet. Yeah, yeah, I get it has a better camera and apps and such, but It's not what I need. I actually laugh as I see people walking up and down the streets jaywalking with their eyes glued on the screen.

I proceed to reluctantly dial up Montoya; this is going to be good.

After just a couple rings, the familiar voice shouts into my ear.

"Bullock, where have you been? Do you realize it's almost ten o' clock? You can't keep going on like this!"

Oh Montoya, always looking out for me.

"No! I actually have a legitimate reason for this time, Montoya!" I argue.

"Go on..." says an unenthusiastic Renee.

"Well, remember those punks that left that skinned feline on my doorstep? They screwed me over again! They trashed my beautiful car! I have no way of getting there now!"

After a brief moment of silence, Montoya responds, "Why don't you just call a cab?"

I sit there in silence, contemplating on how to answer.

"Forget I asked," Montoya asked, "I'll come get you. You're at your travesty of an apartment, right?"

"Yeah... look, thanks for saving my skin, Montoya..."

Montoya barely mutters out, "Don't mention it."


	2. Confrontation

A/N: I know this is a short Chapter, but this chapter was intended to only circle around the car ride.

* * *

Detective Renee Montoya is one of my only friends I have, aside from Commish. She's always looked out for me, always been there for me when I needed her, and always covering my tracks. She's everything a partner needs, and what makes her even better is she ain't crooked! Due to my recent alcohol problem, I feel I should remind both the department and Renee, personally, that I still care and love my job to better the city.

The city is all I have left in my sad existence. I was cursed since birth to be forgotten. To be a hardened brute, overweight man, who only by coincidence made it into the force. I need to prove myself wrong.

I've decided I will show the department a new me today. A whole new side of myself I've tucked away for years. No more smart remarks, no more random mood swings, no more hatred, and no more alcohol. But if they expect me to quit smoking, they've got another thing coming...

I reach into my coat pocket, expecting to feel a pack of cigarillos.

"Dammit..."

I remember I needed to make a speed run to the convenient store to pick some up. Though I am craving them beyond belief, I don't have it in me to tell Montoya to stop and pick me up some, especially now that she's rushing over here. She always hated that I smoked. I think it was because she was more concerned on my health than she actually hated cigarettes.

I eagerly await Renee's arrival, and it feels like hours pass. Yeah, it only _feels _that way, I know it really hasn't been hours, I think it's because I don't have a cigar to hold me over.

As I leant against my trashed vehicle, I begin to doze off, but just at that moment, a loud honking of a horn got me alert as ever. It was Montoya. Thank heavens.

"Finally!" I yell under my breath.

Remember, new lead, new Bullock. Straighten up your tie, tuck your shirt in, don't look like the hung-over mess you really are.

As I walked towards the car, I can't say I saw anger in Renee's eyes, rather, sadness, grief, as if she had just heard terrible news.

"Well look at you, Bullock. Someone is looking proper and sharp today." Montoya said teasingly as I entered the passenger seat. The smile on her face faded away as fast as it came.

"Ha-ha, yeah, sure Montoya." I stated.

"Jesus..." Montoya mutters as she has sight of my trashed car. "Are you going to take it anywhere? Get it fixed? Charge them?"

I contemplated an answer for a second and spat out, "Yeah, I am going to deal with those punks myself if they try something again..." Remember, new Bullock, less angry. "If only I had a lead or knew why they would do this..."

"I see, look after yourself." Montoya replied.

We sat there in silence for a second until Renee commands, "Open the glove box, there is a surprise."

At first I didn't believe her, as we tease each other often, yet I still open it, expecting a surprise. A pack of Dutch Masters cigars fall onto my lap just as I open the compartment, a surprise it was indeed. Montoya is the best.

"Thank you so much Montoya, I had just ran out of them, too. You are a life saver!"

"Heh, well, I knew you'd always need them! No matter how much I hate to face that fact. Bullock I-"

"Just a second, Montoya," I began, "I just want you to know, you and Commish are my only friends...I don't even know how y'all put up with me. So I have a new set of morals and goals. I swear, by this day, I shall be a better cop, person, and friend."

I give a sly smile to Montoya, reassuring her.

"Bullock, you just made this moment even harder." She barely muttered out.

"Wh-What do you mean? Is everything okay, Montoya?"

"Bullock, when I got to the department at seven, Gordon was already there, of course, and he told me to go into his office." She continued, "He sat me down and informed me I was getting a type of promotion and a raise, as well as a new partner."

Those words felt like bullets. My only friend is getting a new partner... I know I shouldn't feel so attached to her, yet I've never had a friend such as this, especially from a partner. I've been her partner for a few years; I grew so attached to her.

Montoya continues, "He says they are getting this new guy from Metropolis named Allen, Crispus Allen. Gordon said he wants me to show him the ropes and be his partner. He feels I am ready to lead and help the newbie. I accepted his offer..."

I try to make myself smile for her sake, just so she knows she hadn't hurt me.

"That-that is great news Montoya. I am proud that my once young trainee is now such a respected and leading detective now. Well you learned from the best!"

Montoya smiles and answers, "Indeed I have, Harv!"

"Just a word of advice for ya, don't end up like me."

Montoya and I both begin to laugh at my remark. We couldn't help it.

"Look Harv," Renee begins as she wipes her eyes from the laughter, "I know this is a little tough for us both, but Gordon says the switch won't happen until the transfer actually arrives. He says he has one more case for us, the two musketeers, to solve and look into. We have to go to Gotham Bay where a few victims and the murderer are. Are you up to it?"

I look up to Montoya's eyes and smile, "Of course I am, Montoya."

My head is full of confusion. I am losing my best and only friend as a partner; I feel Gordon may actually put me down, metaphorically, as a cop after this recent case, and I still have this whole "Mercs" thing going through my head. Who are they? Why would they want me dead? Well actually, why not. The last time I got death threats, there was one man I was forced to turn to... the Batman. And on top of that, I am put on a brand new case. This day keeps getting better...


	3. Scene of the Crime

"So, do you know much of him?" I asked.

"Who, Allen?"

"Yeah, ya know the transfer!" I attempt to make small talk to help ease the pain of this awkward and humdrum moment.

"Oh yeah, him. Well, from what I'm told, he's really good. He isn't much like me when I started, this guy has already been around the block once or twice." She explained.

"Yeah," I began, "_Metropolis_ streets. He ain't been around our blocks. Hope the fella is ready..."

"Oh trust me, Bullock, from what you've shown and taught me, he'll be ready." Montoya said as she gave me an assuring wink.

I decide to retire the idea of small talk and laid my head against the glass. Through this glass, all I see is filth, with a bit of hope. We pass through Gotham's main Industrial District to get to the crime scene. People like Bruce Wayne and Garnett Greenside make these buildings extraordinary. The one thing I have to admit about the city is it has the most amazing buildings in America.

The Wayne Central Station is a perfect example of the architectural brightness this city has. Both Wayne and Greenside's fathers built it back in the day, with their combined talents; they created one of the country's greatest monumental treasures known to man. Greenside himself said to his co-workers, "Remember, for anyone coming to Gotham when they depart the train, this will be the first thing they see of the city. I want them to know they've come to the most remarkable place on earth."

He was a great visionary, who sadly had recently passed. Well, along with the remains of the _original_ Wayne Central Station. Yes, the one man who had created it demolished it, sadly, a few years back. Many people have several different conspiracy theories behind why it happened, but all I know is the Joker was present when it happened, so that should tell you something.

It wasn't much a of a travesty, as Wayne Enterprises was already planning on rebuilding it, as it had so much structural damage and had to be abandoned in its last few years of life. So, Wayne hired Greenside's genius son, who of course must've learned from his father, to build the brand new Wayne Central Station that stands here today, well mostly. It hasn't been fully done with construction, yet it is open and it allows tourists and city goers to have some hope as they enter this sporadic hell of a city.

But, man, you had to see the original. It truly was somethin'. It was huge and beautiful, with various forms of marble, flooring, and all that good stuff! It truly blew everyone away and certainly served its purpose. But I have to say, the new one that is pretty much done construction, is a beauty, too. Everything about it screams the original, just with a little modernized flair. For this reason, they used the original blueprints and worked around that. But I digress...

We finally make our way to Gotham Bay through the vigorous traffic, home to fishers, the homeless, and murderers alike.

"This one doesn't look good..." Montoya proclaims as we examine the crime scene from the car.

"We've seen much worse." I say, as if I tried to reassure her.

We walk up to the crime scene; the smells of fish and pollution make me well aware of my location. I try to examine the area; regardless that my head is flourishing with what has previously happened this day. There appears to be three bodies. Two of which were stabbed frequently with what appears to be a pocketknife. The third body appears to be the actual killer... this has to be the most gruesome of the bodies...

"Poor bastard." A fellow detective, Marcus Driver, calls out as he examines the apparent killer's body.

"You think he's the poor bastard?" Montoya questions, "Looks to me as these two are the poor ones! He was wrong on so many levels..."

"I guess you're right..." Driver agrees, "But we know nothing of the murderer or the victims. All we know is these two were stabbed to death and this one gouged his own eyes out, and stabbed himself in the stomach, causing himself to bleed out."

Montoya and Driver continue to examine the body and question witnesses until Commish comes; I just feel so distant right now. I feel as though those punks could be watching me, or about to kill me now. Even the horrific occurrence in front of me barely fazes me. But what is fazing me is the damned press; I always hate these people. They're like flees and ticks to a dog.

"Hey, Harv, are you okay?" Montoya asks sympathetically, she always looks out for me.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay, Montoya. Just tell me what we got." I say as I point beyond the crime scene tape.

"Well, from the looks of it, we have one drugged up John Doe who ran down and around Gotham Bay shrieking that "crazy fucking demons" were chasing him. This comment came from witnesses who claimed he ran around screaming bloody murder." She continues, "And then he apparently pulls out his pocket knife, stabs these two unfortunate souls here, and then gouges his own eyes out, only to finish with a jab to his own stomach."

I have to admit, it wasn't a pretty sight. None of us were expecting this sort of damage. I cannot imagine the psychological scars adults and children now have from this sort of crime.

I divvy up a plan, trying to maintain the whole "new" Bullock who actually tries to be less of an alcoholic and more of a cop, "Alright, Montoya, I want you to continue to question bystanders and Driver, I want you to try to find out where this masquerade began and then track the route back to here. Are you guys with me?"

"Damn Bullock," Driver began, "you certainly are one for cleaning himself up. You barely look hung-over..."

I admit it, Driver is a bit of a blabbermouth, I am too, but he always literally speaks his mind, but I try to forgive him.

I try to think of a quick response and spit out, "Yeah well, you know it was just the New Year and I have resolutions and all to get to, ya know. So, go out there and map me a path!"

Driver smiles toward me and answers sarcastically, "Yes sir, Mr. Detective."

Now that I have the situation under control, it is time for me to act as crowd control until Gordon gets here.

"Everyone, civilians and press alike," I began, "can you guys settle down and give the boys in blue a break for once? I mean, do you really want to see a man with no eyes, among other things? Give the deceased room to breath... metaphorically. And this is specifically to the press, if you want a statement on this case from a cop, and you can put me on the record for this when I say _fuck off._"

So much for the new resolution...


End file.
